Dear Diary
by Barbas
Summary: About a girl writing about her twisted messed up life. She is tempted by the Devil to give up her soul. Does she give it to him? I guess you'll have to read for yourself. KindOfDrama. Sexual Content, and Verbal Abuse. Please r


A/N- Hello everyone. I've decided to start this new story because... well just because. It came as kind of a dream/vision and so i concluded to post it on here and see what every1 thinks of it. Don't worry, flames are welcome. It's really very weird and kind of distrubing later on, but hey! It's told in the POV of Tiniel Redman Kevins, and if i get reviews i'll probably update it once a week. It's about her writing in a diary (or journal). Well, i hope you enjoy. Please Read and review! Ideas, Flames, and compliments all welcome.

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Dear Diary,                                                                                                               October 31, 3471

Hello, welcome to the Hell that is my life. I apologize beforehand for thoughts and visions that may enter your mind while reading my account of this cruel demanding place that we call earth; god knows I've had my share. Please excuse my active imagination, which can sometimes get the better of me. Any grievance you are caused by reading these entries you have brought upon yourself. I speak only the truth which exists within my mind.

Before I continue on to my horribly distorted past I think I should inform you of something which contains little importance but should be stated none-the-less. My name is Tiniel Redman Kevins. I was born on Halloween, October 31, 3455. Today in fact, exactly sixteen years ago at one o'clock in the morning. This journal (or diary, whichever you prefer) was a gift to me by my Uncle Otis, my fathers brother. He told me to write in it everyday, or else. Or else what? I don't know, and would rather not find out thanks?. I am supposed to write at least three pages a day, but I think I may exceed those limits today simply because I am not only going to be talking about what has happened to me today, but also of what has happened before in my life.

Also, I believe I should explain this to whoever might read this later. The future is nothing like the petty people of the past predicted it to be. There are no flying cars or hover boards. Not everything is assisted by the use of Artificial Intelligence. In fact, computers are rare and seldom used, if ever. Computer Technology and natural resources have digressed considerably, and are rapidly declining.

Sorry, just something I thought I should get out in the opening before I carry on. Now, back to the disaster that is described as my birth. I was a mistake, to state it bluntly. My Uncle Otis says that everything bad that has happened is my fault, and I've thought about it a lot. If I had not been born, my parents would not have split up, and consequently not have died.

When I was six months old Ma filed for a divorce. The reason is supposedly unknown, but I suspect Uncle Otis known more than he is willing to admit. Three months later my father left, without signing any papers. "Logical Considering" says Uncle Otis. "Cowardly Bastard" is my personal opinion. The next day he got into an automobile accident involving one color-blind truck driver, a stop light, and three heaps of crushed metal. The third heap was my fathers Volvo. That incident cost him his life. Good Riddance.

When I was five I had already learned how to iron and wash my own clothes. Ma wouldn't do it for me, I fared for myself. I did the dishes every night, and once a week I was rewarded for my valiant efforts with a movie, which was paid from my pocket. Back then I was holding a steady job at the neighborhood supermarket. My fortunes haven't improved much. The only real difference is I'm eleven years older, and a little taller.

On my seventh birthday Ma didn't get out of bed. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Her internal organs had been incinerated by two in the morning. That at any rate is according to the medics. I have learned that they are not to be entirely trusted. On a more joyous note, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME. I cried, but I don't believe I was actually sad; Ma had never really paid any heed to me or anything I did. She was always busy looking over her shoulder; as if waiting for a past that may come back to get her. I guess it did.

I now live with my Uncle Otis and his son Timothy Andrew. His place is about a block away from the house that my Father had built for Ma on their Thirteenth Anniversary, only months before I was born. It is obvious in the way Uncle Otis treats me that he regrets his decision to take me in. Actually, I have debated over whether or not they had a choice. I personally think that he did. I mean, isn't that what orphanages are there for, parentless children? I myself would be much happier in an orphanage than is his dump, but I haven't got a choice. He is my only living relative aside from my Aunt Vicki. She, however, lives in Malaysia and therefore is a little out of the way. Plus, she doesn't even know I exist. She never called, or visited, and my parents never mentioned her. When the authorities informed me of her being, I was shocked into immobility. I'm over it now, for I know that there is no hope she will take me away from this prison. And just for Uncle Otis's 411, I'm not thrilled to be here either.

I am uncertain whether or not Uncle Otis will read the things I put into writing here. In fact, I'm not all together sure he can read at all. I've undoubtedly never seen him. Even if he is smart enough to string these words together (and if he can read my writing) I don't think he would take it out on me. He knows that the police are watching him. They have been since I arrived here because he was charge earlier on for beating Timothy. When Timothy's mother lost the case for custody (though I'm at a loss to understand why she wanted him in the first place) she left, without a word or any of her belongings.

Well, whatever the reason I was brought (or sent) here doesn't matter. The fact is I'm here now and there's nothing that any of us can do about it. It doesn't matter that Uncle Otis hates me. The feeling's mutual. It doesn't matter that I'm Timothy's punching bag; he doesn't have many muscles anyway. They will both get what's coming to them. My father did, Ma did, and they will too. I have put up with their constant abuse for nine painfully long years, and I'm not going to wait much longer. Their time is nearing an end. I can hear it in the whispering words of the blowing wind; in the very walls of the shack I have been forced to call home.

Note to reader: I believe that in order to fully understand how I feel and in order to completely grasp this unique situation I must fully explain to you the main character depicted in this "story". That's me.

I am sixteen. My hair is cut just beneath my shoulders. It is pitch black, except for the tips which I have dyed red. I leave it down because it is such a hassle to put up, and I like it to hang in my face; it gives me a more secretive look, which teachers hate. My eyes are gray, but they appear to turn green/blue in the dark. I am pretty tall, but not as tall as most of the people who attend Ivon High School. It's all because of my damn long legs that everyone is always complimenting. If my torso were just a little longer I might actually reach the height of some of my friends. I have few friends and fewer I can trust

I admit that I am a bit of a trouble maker. The teachers don't like me, which is okay because I don't like the teachers. I rarely do homework, except writing assignments. I've taken to doing those more often. I also do my entire math, so I do enough to get by. My reputation is, to say in the least, less than perfect. Detention has become a regular class for me, and the school actually put detention on my list of classes in the second semester.

A lot of the time I go for violating the dress code, but they have eased off on my a bit partly because they think that I can't afford more than what I have, and they would be right in assuming that. I wear baggy pants (really low) with multiple zippers, pockets, and random cloth that hang down from everywhere. I wear wrist bands, skater shoes, and torn and ripped jeans which I am very proud of. I also wear large t-shirts, mostly two or three sizes too large; same with my sweatshirts. Goth? No, I wouldn't go that far. All I will say is that I'm an interesting person, with a lot more going on inside of me than people may realize.

Is that all I have to say today? I guess so. I expected to write more, but I find myself at a loss for words. Tomorrow is another day, though. I'll think about it tomorrows

Tiniel R.K.

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Please review all who read! Thanks!!! 


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